"How could he help it with his enormous asses' ears?" said the tall, thin Egerton.
Duff, an optimist, like all red-headed, freckled boys, appealed to the others, each in turn. The verdict was unanimous.
"He hates me like poison," said Duff. "I shall catch it hot. What an unlucky beggar I am!"
"Pooh!" said Scaife. "He knows jolly well that the whole school calls him Dirty Dick."
But whatever hopes Duff may have entertained of his house-master's deafness were speedily laid in the dust. Within five minutes Rutford reappeared. He stood in the doorway, glaring.
"Just now, Duff," said he, "I happened to overhear your voice, which is singularly, I may say vulgarly, penetrating. You were speaking of me, your house-master, as 'Dick.' But you used an adjective before it. What was it?"
Duff writhed. "I don't—remember."
"Oh yes, you do. Why lie, Duff?"
John's brown face grew pale.
"The adjective you used," continued Rutford, "was 'dirty.' You spoke of me as 'Dirty Dick,' and I fancy I caught the word 'beast.' You will write out, if you please, one hundred Greek lines, accents and stops, and bring them to me, or leave them with Dumbleton, twenty-five lines at a time, every alternate half hour during the afternoon of the next half holiday. Good night to you."